


[This is not a victory march]

by spectreshepard



Category: Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Drabble, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-28
Updated: 2014-12-28
Packaged: 2018-03-04 01:16:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2903954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spectreshepard/pseuds/spectreshepard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Calling takes every Warden in the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	[This is not a victory march]

**[This is not a victory march.]**

He is bleeding and broken, scrapes and breaks patched up too many times and now the seams are coming loose. They tear and they snap and they hurt; his bones are hanging by threads, knocking loosely, aimlessly, clumsily.

He is alive, and that is enough.  It is enough for him.

_i. Mythal, preserve me._

> There is ash in his mouth and smoke in his eyes, his ears are empty and his skin is aflame.
> 
> He thanks the Creators for every step that he cannot hear, every scream that doesn’t ring hollow in his skull, every last dying breath that never becomes a sound.

_ii. Elgar’nan, give me strength._

> One foot in front of the other.
> 
> That’s what he tells himself, when his legs are too heavy and his eyes can’t focus and his head is spinning amongst the (silent) screams of war.
> 
> One step after another.

_iii. Falon’Din, calm my soul._

> He cannot hear, cannot see, cannot place his existence on a map that does not exist. There is no hand to guide him, no light to follow, no prayer answered.
> 
> His heart he can feel is beating, beating, beating. Beating his bones to dust.

_iv. Dirthamen, uncloud my eyes._

> Ash is a veil, obscures the flames that you will inevitably burn yourself on.
> 
> It is a cruel disguise, but a clever one.

_v. Ghilan’nain, speed my steps._

> Closer, closer, closer to home. Home is a construct that he does not understand.
> 
> But is it to home that his feet are taking him, faster and faster, caught in the wheel of a runaway cart.

_vi. Andruil, aim me true._

> He knows his mark, and his home is far, but comforting whispers warm his bones, and he finds himself not so alone.
> 
> Is this why, he wonders, every sun must have its moon and stars?

_vii. Sylaise, guide me home._

> The taint burns him, turns to acrid smoke in his veins, becomes tar in his lungs. The song is loud, the taunt is clear, to its tune he walks and to its call he must answer.
> 
> He knew this. He has always known this.
> 
> Ash falls from his skin like smoke from embers, and it taints the ground. The battle’s won, but the price was steep.
> 
> The price was a life. The price was _his_ life.

This is not a victory march.

**Author's Note:**

> First little DA piece out there in the big world. Scary times. 
> 
> After seeing that elven prayer floating around Tumblr, I really wanted to do something with it, so it is based heavily on my OC, Rion Tabris, a deaf elf-mage Warden whom I adore dearly. Admittedly, this particular drabble came out of nowhere at about 3AM in some sleep-deprived stupor, but it also happens to be one of those pieces I look at 3 days later and don't want to burn in a pile of trash so... every cloud!


End file.
